


Home Improvement Appendix: How They Met

by pagination



Series: Home Improvement [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12777846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: “Speaking of American heroes—“ Phil begins.“I wasn’t,” Marcus says rudely.Phil ignores him. “It was an honor to be wing man to a real, undeniable American icon,” he says, taking shrimp from the freezer to thaw. “I have his trading card from 1952, when his image was being used by Fairchild against Joe McCarthy’s campaign. A little foxing on the edges, but otherwise in good condition. Current valuation—“The inchoate sound of rage that Marcus makes is satisfying in the way a good bowel movement is:  viciously physical, and spiritually rejuvenating.





	Home Improvement Appendix: How They Met

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a strange year, and I am out of practice because it's been longer than that since I posted anything. So by way of screwing my training wheels back on, I dug up a scrap of a story idea I wrote out when I was working on Home Improvement--namely, how the assorted Avengers would eventually meet Phil in the world of Home Improvement--and finished the James Barnes part of it.
> 
> I probably won't go back to it, but the idea was that Bucky would wile away the time doing some sort of Person of Interest thing with JARVIS because why wouldn't he? And he wouldn't need a Harold, but everyone can use a Phil at their back. Somewhere along the line they'd create a 'sane friend of crazy stupid superheroes' club where they mutually bitch about Steve and Clint's suicidal martyr complexes over vodka and pie, and then Clint and Steve would find out and be all, oh shit whyyyyyy.
> 
> There are, I notice, marked similarities between my Barnes and owlet's James Barnes. I have no idea which came first since it's been too long, but you should go read owlet's [This, You Protect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1752638) anyway. Because it's gold.

**_Bucky Barnes_ **

 

There’s a word for how Barnes feels about Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye.

He thinks it starts with an ‘a.’

“What you need,” Clint Barton says, leaning over the table to poke around in Barnes’s food, “is a hobby.”

Apathetic. Awkward? Ambivalent? He’s ambivalent about most of the Avengers. Barnes watches through the curtain of his hair while Clint Barton picks out a french fry, eats half of it, then returns it to Barnes’s plate.

“Yuck,” Clint Barton says. “Phil’s potatoes are so much better. He bakes them in the oven. Wedges. They’re amazing.” He steals a different french fry, bites it, licks the salt off the half that’s left, then replaces it on Barnes’s plate too.

 _Annoyed_ is an ‘a’ word.

“That’s disgusting. Don’t do that,” Natalia says, not looking up from the book she’s reading. Barnes lets his eyes flick to it: paperback, popular trash. _Richard Campbell_ , he reads down the spine, and in big yellow letters, the title: _Alpha Games_. “If he touches your food again, go ahead and stab him, Yasha.”

Barnes doesn’t actually care about the food. Barnes doesn’t want the food. Eating isn’t a thing he enjoys. But Steve makes stupid sad eyes in his stupid sad face when Barnes doesn’t eat, which is why he’s sitting in front of his food in the common room, in the hopes that Clint Barton or Tony Stark will wander by and eat the food right off his plate for him.

If the food is gone, Steve won’t make the face. Natalia spoils everything. Barnes glares at her. She ignores him.

“A hobby,” Clint Barton says again, eyeing the fries longingly, though he doesn’t reach for them again. “Some of the old folks at the senior center knit. Or there’s bingo.”

Barnes transfers his glare to Clint Barton. But he also nudges the plate a little closer. Clint Barton takes it as the invitation it is, beams, and gags himself with hamburger.

It’s a big hamburger. Clint Barton’s cheeks puff out like a chipmunk’s when he chews. It’s disgusting.

“Phiwwivef,” Clint Barton says.

That’s not English. Or Russian. Barnes eyes him suspiciously.

“His writing is not a hobby,” Natalia says, and turns another page.

“Faftefavod,” Clint Barton argues.

“It’s not a hobby,” Natalia says again, unmoved. “It’s his primary source of income.”

“Ivdovveavvafe,” Clint Barton says, swallowing down his mouthful. “I’d be his sugar daddy. All he’d have to do is be gorgeous and cook for me. This hamburger is shit by the way, Barnes.”

Barnes watches Clint Barton take another mammoth bite. Natalia though—Natalia has lowered the book and is looking at Barnes now in a speculative way that he doesn’t like.

He narrows his eyes at her. He lets his willingness to walk ankle-deep in her blood show in his face.

Her eyes gleam. “I think it’s great that you’re thinking of getting a hobby, Yasha,” she says.

What.

“A hobby?” says Steve, limping into the common room because even the Super Soldier serum struggles when one’s left leg gets _sliced off and has to be reattached_. Barnes ignores the bubble of rage that Steve’s presence invokes.. There’s no way Natalia said what she did without knowing he was coming in. Steve’s stupid face is brightening up with a stupid smile, and he’s looking at Barnes like he thinks if he waits long enough, Barnes will start pooping ice cream sundaes. (Unsanitary. Gross.) “You’re going to find a hobby? That’s great, Bucky!”

“I have a hobby,” Barnes says flatly. “I kill Hydra.”

Steve’s smile falters.

“Doesn’t count,” Natalia says. “That’s your primary source of income.” By tacit agreement, any Hydra assets they find is Barnes’s property. Tony Stark calls it back pay.

“That’s not my only hobby,” Barnes says, but Steve isn’t listening to him. Steve has just caught Clint Barton red-handed with Barnes’s hamburger stuffed in his face, and is looking disappointed at him. Clint Barton is bug-eyed and flapping his hands. He looks stupid. Better him than Barnes.

“He gave it to me!” Clint Barton manages, through a cough and a hasty swallow. He points at Barnes.

Traitor.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says reproachfully.

Barnes gets up and leaves.

 

+

 

Today is Tuesday. Barnes steps out of the Tower, crosses the street, and buys a newspaper. He gives the newsstand guy a ten-spot and the trackers that the US Governmentand Tony Stark decided he should wear for the safety of the wide-eyed orphans the Winter Soldier might otherwise eat. In exchange, he gets a New York Post, which he pretends to read. A few minutes later, a woman in baggy clothes bustles up, gets eight Milky Ways, and pockets both trackers. She tucks her items into a big tote bag and hurries on again. Barnes follows her. His CIA, SHIELD, Homeland Security, FBI, and NSA tails follow him. He considers walking into a bar, just to see if they’d follow.

He is beginning of bad Russian joke.

They’re not hard to shake. It’s sad. The courier dives into her illegally parked car. She’ll take the tracker with her on her Meals on Wheels rounds, for which service Barnes donates monthly a few hundred dollars confiscated from Hydra, along with shitty chocolates the Meals on Wheels customers seem to love. The CIA, SHIELD, Homeland Security, FBI, and NSA tails will follow her and keep the food for the old people and shut-ins safe. That’s good. Old people and shut-ins deserve good food security too.

Old people. Shut-ins. He’s been both of those. They are his people. Hah.

Barnes goes to Harlem.

Harlem takes some getting to. Barnes doesn’t like the subway, doesn’t like the crowds, doesn’t like the traffic, and doesn’t like the bicycles. He gets there anyway. Once he gets to a stop that looks interesting, he gets off and starts wandering. It’s one-forty, so it isn’t as crowded on the streets as it’ll be in a few hours. He enjoys walking without anybody’s eyes on him, electronic or otherwise. He buys a egg cheese sausage bagel sandwich that’s as tall as it is round and gives it to a street person. He buys a candy bar with a white label that informs him all proceeds will go to PS-123’s arts program and pockets it. He buys a cup of coffee at a little dive run by hipsters and puts two dollars in change in the tip jar because his pockets are clinking.

Then, remembering something Steve said to him once, he buys another cup.

The VA is already open when Barnes gets there. There are a few people hanging out on the sidewalk outside, smoking and looking tired. There’s a warning printed on the frosted glass door tells him that no weapons are allowed. It gives him a moment’s pause before he decides that they must mean inanimate, _visible_ weapons.

This makes perfect sense to him. Traumatized veterans wouldn’t want visual reminders of war. All of his guns, knives, garrotes, and explosives are concealed. His body is a weapon. He is wearing clothes. He is thoughtful. Good job, Barnes.

Inside it’s worn-down and breaking down, none of the furniture new, all of it government drab. He can hear some voices in the back corridors, and there are phones purring off and on over them. The woman at the front desk looks up when he comes in. He stands in front of her and stares at her. _Read my mind,_ he orders silently. _Get Sam_.

She smiles at him. “What can I do for you?” she asks.

She’s not reading his mind. Disappointing.

He grudgingly turns on his voice for her. For the last three hours, he’s been getting by on hand gestures and cash. He resents that she’s breaking his streak. “Sam,” he says.

Her smile doesn’t change. “Is there a particular one you’re looking for?” she asks.

It sounds like a trick question. Does he look like he wants all the Sams? “Yes,” he says.

She keeps smiling. He stares at her. She doesn’t stop smiling. It must hurt her face. Does it hurt her face to smile this much? He’s tempted to ask. But that would be more words.

They probably would’ve stood there staring at each other all day, except that somebody comes out of the back hallways. Barnes eyes him covertly. The new arrival has a receding hairline and a nondescript face. The way he moves though, even with a limp, is familiar to Barnes. It makes him think _target_ , and _threat_ , and he stops for a second to decide whether it’s the memory of an old op—the man might be Hydra; Barnes dips his head slightly so his hair covers more of his face—or part of a briefing.

The receptionist turns towards him with the relief of someone who sees a higher power coming to the rescue. “Phil, this gentleman is looking for a Sam.”

 _Phil_ looks at Barnes, his face friendly, and then blinks. Then he blinks again.

Barnes tenses, flexing his left hand. He wonders if he will have to punch right through Phil’s head out the back of his skull.That would be messy. It would be bad for the traumatized veterans. But then Phil’s ears turn pink, and he says in a strangled voice, “Sergeant.”

Some days he’s Barnes, some days he’s the Asset, but never since this century started has he been _Sergeant_. Disconcerted, he gives Phil his very best glower through his hair. No one outside of SHIELD and the Avengers knows his identity. Even Hydra doesn’t know who he was.

Phil’s ears turn even pinker. He clears his throat. “He’s looking for Wilson, Rita. I’ll take him in back to find him.”

Barnes decides he will not punch this Phil through the face and out the back of his skull quite yet. Unless he turns out to be Hydra.

The VA is boring. Phil leads him down a couple of bland, institutional corridors remarkable for peeling linoleum and bleach. There are faded posters on the walls reminding him about self-care, stress management, and the warning signs of depression. All of them provide good advice. Barnes hears Sam’s group before they arrive, the sound of his calm, warm voice coming out of a bright doorway.

Phil steps in ahead of him. The room is only half full. Sam Wilson is sitting with the veterans in a circle of folding chairs. He’s wrapping up the meeting, reminding the already rising group that there are new folks on staff who can help with any open insurance paperwork. “Or if you don’t want to deal with anyone new, you can always ask Phil. He loves paperwork,” Sam Wilson tells them, grinning across the room at him. Phil smiles back, and Barnes ducks behind the door.

It takes a few minutes for the room to empty. Barnes tenses with every body that passes. By the time Sam Wilson appears in the doorway, he’s ready to throw both cups of coffee at him and just call it a day.

“Hey, man,” Sam Wilson says instead of commenting on his unease. Sam Wilson sounds sincerely pleased to see him, as usual. It’s unnerving, as usual. “One of those for me?”

Unwrapping his fingers from either of the cups seems like too much trouble. Barnes thrusts both of them at Sam Wilson to let him choose. This way, Sam Wilson will have a reasonable guarantee that the one he picks is not poisoned. It’s the polite thing to do.

Sam Wilson looks at him.

“Dr Albanez says giving food that is not poisoned is a rite of social conformity,” Barnes explains.

Sam Wilson looks pleased. “Hell yes. Yes, it is. Especially when it’s good coffee.”

He takes the cup closest to him, which demonstrates either an irrational level of trust, or incredibly complex split-second analysis. Barnes stares hard at him, on the off chance Sam Wilson will betray which one it is. As usual, the stare doesn’t seem to bother Sam Wilson. Maybe Barnes’s stare is broken.

“Thanks,” Sam Wilson says, lifting the cup and sipping from it. “It’s a hell of a lot better than what we pass off as coffee around here. So you finally met Phil, huh?”

Barnes transfers his stare to Phil, who’s turned pink again, but doesn’t seem afraid. His stare really is broken. “We haven’t been formally introduced,” Phil says. He nods to Barnes but doesn’t offer his hand. Barnes approves. Hand-shaking is awful. “Phil Coulson.”

Sam Wilson scoffs, and adds intel. “Major Phil Coulson, known in these parts as the Paperwork God. Ex-Delta and operational savant. Also one of the many asses I saved back in the days.”

“There was a goat,” Phil explains, which doesn’t clarify anything.

“He’s Clint’s Phil,” Sam Wilson tells Barnes, which is also useless. Recognizing Barnes’s look of non-comprehension, he elaborates further. “He’s the guy that Barton’s been seeing for the last year. Don’t tell anyone. Nobody else knows but Natasha and Fury.” At Clint’s Phil’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “Barnes has known that you exist almost before you moved in, man.”

Barnes reviews past observational data, satisfied that he finally has a real person to put to the comments and conclusions inferred through past interactions with Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. “Roommate. Lover. Skilled chef. Supplies home improvement. Amazing ass. Unicorn dick.”

Sam Wilson makes a strangled sound. Clint’s Phil says, “I’m what?”

“Unicorn dick. It’s magical. That’s what Clint Barton said,” Barnes says. He frowns down at Clint’s Phil’s pelvic region, which is facing the wrong way to assess the ass, but theoretically the right way for inspecting the dick. He’d noticed several things about Clint’s Phil, but nothing notable regarding the aesthetics of his glutes. It’s impossible to make out anything significant about his penis behind the slacks beyond the fact that he has _something_ down the front of his pants. He infers the presence of a penis. He has no empirical evidence that it isn’t a prosthetic. Something occurs to him. “You made seafood stew.”

Sam Wilson is laughing too hard to speak, curled up around his stomach like Barnes punched him. That makes Barnes feel warm inside. Clint’s Phil’s face is carefully composed, but his ears are red. “The last time Clint went on a trip, yes. I packed him some cioppino,” Clint’s Phil says.

“It was good,” Barnes says, concentrating on the memory. He stole it from Clint Barton during the flight back from the op because Clint Barton annoyed him and it smelled good. Barnes ate most of the container before Clint Barton stole it back. He didn’t throw up. Steve’s stupid eyes got all shiny and wet.

“Phil’s a great cook,” Sam Wilson says.

Sam Wilson doesn’t make a fuss over the fact that Barnes liked something he ate, the way Steve did. Steve is a stupidface. Steve tried to make seafood stew for him after. It was horrible. “There was shrimp,” Barnes remembers.

“I’m glad you liked it. I can make more and send it to the Tower with Clint, if you want,” Clint’s Phil says, still pink but smiling now.

Barnes eyes him suspiciously.

“I’ll send some over,” Clint’s Phil says without batting an eye.

Barnes doesn’t relax with the question off the table, but maybe he appreciates not having to answer. He nods, aware that he’s done with words now. He’s seen Sam Wilson and met Clint’s Phil and the VA receptionist. He’s talked to two new people today. Dr Albanez would be pleased. He fishes into his coat pocket for the chocolate bar, now a little melted, and shoves it at Sam Wilson.

Then he turns and leaves. Sam Wilson won’t shoot him in the back. If Clint’s Phil is Hydra, Sam Wilson will stop him from shooting Barnes in the back long enough for Barnes to get back and punch Clint’s Phil through the head.

“Of course you know who he is,” he hears Sam Wilson say to Clint’s Phil behind him. He sounds fond. “You big ‘40s nerd, you.”

Barnes hopes Clint’s Phil isn’t Hydra. That stew was really good.

 

+

 

One hour and forty-two minutes later, Barnes is inside 122 W. 125th Street. It is a bank. He is wearing a blue jacket with a hood that he picked up from a clothing donation bin on 119th. It smells like grease and cigarette smoke. He has the hood up to help hide his face and his leather gloves on to hide his metal hand.

There are counters in 122 W. 125th Street. They’re made of wood and there are little forms in slots on the counters. There are also pens that are chained to the table. Barnes is using one to draw stick men the backs of the forms. One of the stick men is beating up some of the other stick men. Some of the stick men are already dead. He’s made it clear they’re dead by drawing x’s where their eyes should be and adding blood pools beneath them. Drawing is therapeutic, according to Dr. Albanez.

He’s just thinking about labeling the dead stick men ‘Hydra jerkfaces’ to make it extra specially therapeutic when Clint’s Phil walks in the door, leaning on a cane. Barnes’s back is to the door, but that’s only so the counter isn’t between him and it. He can see what’s happening behind him in the reflection of a glass barrier enclosing one of the desks in the lobby. Clint’s Phil stops just beyond the reach of the door and does a quick visual check of the perimeter before he joins the short queue in front of the tellers. Clint’s Phil doesn’t realize Barnes is there, because Barnes is wearing different clothes and has his face turned away.

The presence of Clint’s Phil is suspicious. Possibly he is tracking Barnes. The limp might be false. Barnes narrows his eyes. If Clint’s Phil was able to follow Barnes without Barnes noticing, then Clint’s Phil is more dangerous than he seemed. It’s probable Barnes will need to punch Clint’s Phil through the head after all. After Barnes interrogates him.

Maybe as part of the interrogation, Barnes will acquire the recipe for the stew.

Barnes considers changing his primary mission objective, but just then the door opens again and three men rush inside. They are moving quickly. All of them are wearing balaclavas and are armed with M9s. They are wearing street clothes, but no obvious body armor. Two of them shout at the same time, “On the floor! Now! Now! Now!” and fire into the ceiling. Since they are both shouting, it is hard to understand exactly what they’re saying. The people in the bank turn to look at them, confused.

They are early. Barnes is annoyed. This is what Tony Stark calls ‘amateur hour.’ Barnes’s attention tunnels. He is feeling a word that starts with ‘h.’ _Hostile_. _Happy_? He will consider it later.

His metal hand is already moving when he spins on a foot to face them. He grabs hard at the gun-holding arm of the man closest to him, feeling the bone snap when he twists it. The bank robber has no trigger discipline. The gun goes off, sending the bullet through the robber’s shoe. The robber screams. Barnes jerks the gun out of the robber’s hand with his flesh one, grabs his nape with the other hand, and sends him sprawling across the floor.

The man furthest from Barnes is turning to point his gun at him. Barnes aims for his kneecap—nonlethal engagement—and pulls the trigger.

The gun jams. It _jams_. The robbers haven’t been maintaining their weapons. _Amateur hour._

Barnes pops the clip out and throws it hard at his target with his metal hand. Nonlethal engagement means he doesn’t aim for the throat. It hits the man in the near shoulder, breaking through cloth and skin in a spray of blood. The man stumbles and screams.

It’s like a trigger for the rest of the room. _Now_ the customers start screaming and running around. The far robber having been distracted, Barnes throws the rest of the gun into the remaining target, distracting him long enough to get close. This one raises his gun. Barnes wrenches it away, the bullet flashing past his hip to chip the floor. He slaps his open left palm into man’s chest. The man coughs blood as he flies backwards into the doors, spiderwebbing the glass before crumpling to the ground.

Before he’s done falling, Barnes already has the new gun pointed at the second robber, ready to shoot him in the kneecap per the original plan. But he doesn’t.

The second robber is down. Clint’s Phil is straightening over the unconscious body. He’s holding the cane in one hand like a _bo_. Barnes retrieves a memory of Clint’s Phil taking down the robber with very little fuss.

Clint’s Phil looks at Barnes, gaze steady and watchful. Like this, he is a professional—the kind Barnes is intimately familiar with, _threat_ —but there’s an expression on his face that makes Barnes think of Sam, too. A word that starts with K. Kibble? No. _Kind._ Barnes aims the gun at him, ignoring the extremely ineffectual bank security guard who is only now fumbling for his holster. There’s a silence, punctuated only by the stray scream and upset wail from the now hidden bank customers. It lasts four point five seconds.

“Do you know where you are?” Clint’s Phil asks.

Barnes is in 122 W. 125th Street, Harlem, New York, at 3:14 PM EST, November 21, 2015, in the 21st century, on planet earth, living a cosmic joke of existence.

He nods.

Clint’s Phil says with awkward enthusiasm, “Okay then. I’m just, gosh. Can I say that I’m just happy to watch your backside.”

What. Barnes blinks.

Clint’s Phil blinks back. “That’s. Not. Because that would be— I meant I was happy to watch the side of you that contains your back. Your spine. Guarding, I mean. Watching your—“ He trails off.

Barnes stares at him.

“Well,” says Clint’s Phil conversationally, his ears pink. “That was horrible and awkward.”

Which is about the time when the bank security guard yells, “Freeze! Drop the gun!” He’s finally managed to get his weapon out, though he’s waving it wildly between the bank robbers, Clint’s Phil, and Barnes. Barnes gives Clint’s Phil a look that expresses that he is unimpressed by the entire situation. The corners of Clint’s Phil’s eyes crinkle. It looks like a smile.

Barnes pops the clip and tosses the gun onto the floor. He kicks it away from the robbers.

Then he turns and starts walking out of the bank. Behind him, he feels Clint’s Phil move between him and the security guard. “Wait!” yells the security guard. “Freeze! You can’t leave! You’re a—“ witness, threat, mass murdering century-spanning war criminal? There’s a thump behind him, a clatter, a yelp. Barnes watches it all in the reflection of the unbroken door. Then there’s Clint’s Phil’s voice sounding in an apologetic murmur, and the security guard’s voice over that: “—darn it!”

The door closes behind Barnes. There are sirens approaching. He removes the blue coat as he walks, his own jacket underneath it. He tosses the blue one to a homeless person, and then checks his phone. Message from Steve. Cabbage-wrapped meatballs for dinner tonight? Or should he make something else? What did Barnes think of the spaghetti they had the other day? Was there too much mushroom? Did he like the garlic? There are lots of exclamation points, question marks, and smiling emoji.

The messaging app will tell Steve he read it. Barnes sends back a text consisting of a simple, acknowledging period so Steve knows he’s lucid and doesn’t care. Then he puts his phone away, ignoring how it vibrates excitedly in his pocket. It’s probably Steve asking him all his thoughts about dessert.

Cabbage-wrapped meatballs. They will make his urine smell like dirty dishwater.

He sighs.

 

 

**_Phil_ **

 

There’s a post-it waiting for Phil when he gets home, an almost indecipherable message about the dog and a promise to get home when he gets home, _‘tp scrt!!! xxx C’._ After a year and change together as roommate and partner, Phil is familiar enough with Clint’s scrawls to infer that Clint is on another emergency op for SHIELD, location and return date unknown, and that he and his oral fixation love Phil very much.

His phone rings while he’s standing in the kitchen with the note, smiling and idly wondering what Clint’s issue with vowels is. There are only a handful of people who have his number. He doesn’t need the telltale ‘ _Pencildick’_ on the caller ID to know who’s calling.

“Did they know you have the planning skills of a chia pet when they gave you this job? ” he greets. “Because I could swear I was supposed to make dinner for two tonight.”

“Fuck you,” Marcus retorts. “This is what you get for dating a goddamn Avenger. As far as your clearance goes, all you’re allowed to know is that he went to pick up toilet paper at the bodega and it’s going to take him a couple days.”

“We usually buy ours from Costco,” Phil says. And because he knows unnecessary precision makes the muscle under Marcus’s bad eye twitch, he adds helpfully, “There’re forty-two rolls left in the building supply closet.”

“What can I say. Your boyfriend’s an idiot.”

“My boyfriend is a genuine American hero.”

The sound Marcus makes is not suitable for public consumption. “I refuse to talk about him,” he says sourly. “I’m calling about the bank robbery you were in today.”

Phil flinches in embarrassment, remembering _I’m happy to watch your backside_ , then opens the refrigerator and starts putting away groceries. The chill is pleasant on his hot face. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Tough.”

“It wasn’t much of a robbery. They didn’t actually manage to steal anything.”

“Because you got in their way like a miniature Chuck Norris.”

“I’d go for ‘dashing wing man,’ myself.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t end up collateral damage,” Marcus grouses. “It would’ve served you right if you’d got a bullet in your face.”

“That would have made me sad.”

“Not me. I’m the one who has to look at it. From my perspective, it’d be an improvement.”

There’s very real concern underneath Marcus’s sniping. Phil puts down the green peppers and pauses, considering. The bank robbers were amateur at best, incompetent at worst. While there are times when incompetents can be more dangerous than professionals, this was not one of those times. If Marcus knew anything about it at all, he’d know there was no real harm done. Marcus isn’t the type to expend worry about might-have-beens.

Phil glances at the muted TV, which is showing more conjecture about the possible identity of the masked superhero, the Winter Soldier. Most people wouldn’t have met James Barnes and immediately identified him as the original Bucky Barnes, still the same age seventy years after he fell in World War II. Admittedly, Phil is a little strange and has connections in weird places.

“Speaking of American heroes—“ he begins.

“I wasn’t,” Marcus says rudely.

Phil ignores him. “It was an honor to be wing man to a real, undeniable American icon,” he says, taking shrimp from the freezer to thaw. “I have his trading card from 1952, when his image was being used by Fairchild against Joe McCarthy’s campaign. A little foxing on the edges, but otherwise in good condition. Current valuation—“

The inchoate sound of rage that Marcus makes is satisfying in the way a good bowel movement is:viciously physical, and spiritually rejuvenating. “Fuck. I should’ve known. I don’t suppose Barton told you.”

Marcus sounds as hopeless as he ever gets, which means he knows perfectly well Clint didn’t. Phil doesn’t deign to acknowledge that with a retort.

“You realize this is need to know?” Marcus demands.

“Did I need to know that?” Phil wonders rhetorically.

“You wanna explain to me how you ended up in a bank robbery with fucking _James Buchanan Barnes_?”

“I was making a deposit.”

“A _deposit_.”

“Deposit. Noun. A sum of money placed in a bank or financial institution for the purpose of storage—“ he has to raise his voice over Marcus’s rapid descent into obscene Pashtun, “—and investment. Not all of us pay off our significant others’ Macy’s cards with stolen Ten Rings drug money.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ would you give it a rest? It was 1997, and you know perfectly well it was part of an op!”

“Nine thousand four hundred and thirty-six dollars on push-up bras and panty hose—“

“It was the _one time_!”

While Marcus shouts at him, Phil writes a new post-it for Clint, reminding him that if he checked out of medical against medical advice, he will regret it when Phil inevitably finds out. 

“Out here in the real world, coincidences actually do happen,” he tells Marcus when there’s a convenient pause in the ranting. He underlines all the vowels in his note on principle. “The bank is down the block from my PT. Are you calling because you’re concerned about my well-being after I was nearly shot by bank robbers?”

“Fuck do I care,” Marcus grumbles, apparently resigned to _fait accompli_ now that he’s vented some of his spleen. “I’m just making sure you didn’t slobber all over Barnes.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Phil says, shocked. “He’s an original.”

The pity of modern phones is that they’re not easy to hang up with prejudice. Phil has been at the wrong end of a few smashed receivers in his time, compliments of several exes, Army brass, and Marcus; he sympathizes with his old friend, who can’t even be certain Phil will get a pointed dial tone when he cuts the line.

He washes up and checks his notes on his last batch of cioppino. Memory refreshed, he starts assembling the pieces. Even if Clint doesn’t come home tonight, he can still get it to Avenger Tower by means of Sam tomorrow. He’ll just have to make an extra serving as payment.

 

 

**_Bucky_ **

 

“You talked to two new people today?” Steve says over cabbage-wrapped meatballs. “That’s great, Bucky!”

Barnes nods. He is aware he has fulfilled the requirements set by Dr. Albanez.

“You know though, Dr. Albanez didn’t mean you had to _only_ talk to new people,” Steve says, while Barnes chews stoically on doughy meatballs and limp, dishrag cabbage. “I mean, you can follow up with some of the people you’ve already met and have more conversations with them.”

Barnes is also aware of this. He forks more meatball into his mouth. He chews.

“The idea is to make friends. Or, you know. Friendly acquaintances. People you can talk to. Shoot the breeze with,” Steve says. “It’s important to make connections outside of just me and the Avengers.”

Barnes nods.

“Did you do anything else interesting today?”

Barnes thinks, then shakes his head. He has decided that Steve does not need to know about the bank robbery. Steve let himself get _dismembered_ last week, so he does not deserve to know. He chews grimly.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Steve asks.

Barnes swallows. He opens his mouth. Steve looks hopeful. 

Barnes puts more meatball in it.

Steve’s face falls.

“You should really chew your food more, Buck,” Steve says sadly.

Barnes eyes him. He would, except then he’d have to taste it.

He swallows.

 

+

 

The best thing about living in Stark Tower is JARVIS.

JARVIS is patient. JARVIS is kind. JARVIS isn’t emotionally invested in Barnes’s well-being, so he doesn’t get upset when Barnes doesn’t eat, or doesn’t sleep, or doesn’t do things the way Some People think he should do them. JARVIS doesn’t tell on Barnes when he throws up all the solid food he eats that week, or when he sits for hours and hours in the recalibration chair that he dragged home from a Hydra base and that Steve thinks he destroyed for therapeutic reasons. JARVIS is not a fucking moron.

Unlike Some People.

What JARVIS does is give him quiet when he doesn’t want to talk, and intel and supplies when he wants intel and supplies. And best of all, the very best of all, is that JARVIS gives him missions.

“Congratulations on the successful completion of your mission today, sir,” JARVIS tells Barnes, when he’s brushing his teeth after throwing up the cabbage-wrapped meatballs. “Two young men are planning on robbing a jewelry store in Brooklyn tomorrow morning at oh-nine-thirty. You indicated an interest in halting any criminal activity in that borough.”

Barnes did. He nods, knowing that JARVIS will see the gesture, and rinses out his mouth. “Anything else?” he asks.

“There is a strong probability that a murder-for-hire will take place in the Ocean Hill neighborhood that afternoon,” JARVIS reports. “I have details on the proposed victim available. I have already notified the 79th precinct through the usual anonymous means, but I’m afraid they do not consider it actionable intelligence.”

Barnes considers, pulling the mouthwash from the medicine cabinet. “Intel on the financials?”

“Displaying now,” JARVIS tells him, and as promised, the bathroom mirror shows him the train of information JARVIS collected to create his probability tree.

The individual displayed, Anton Garson, age 28, is a software programmer. There is nothing in his background to indicate a credible threat. He works in Queens. The target of the murder-for-hire is a single woman of age twenty-six, who is also in the software field. He considers the logistics while he gargles and spits.

“I apologize, sir. I’m afraid I cannot find any timing on the attempt on Ms. Kinsey more specific than a reference to the afternoon of March 13th,” JARVIS says.

Prioritization is key. “Jewelry store first,” Barnes says. “Then protection on Kinsey, followed by evidence gathering if feasible and future deterrence on Garson.”

“I concur, sir,” JARVIS says. “Might I make a suggestion?”

Barnes smashes his face into his towel and nods.

“An occasional assistant in these efforts might increase time management and efficacy,” JARVIS says.

It’s a good idea. Barnes considers. Steve is out of the question: he gets upset when Barnes gets a paper cut. Tony Stark is loud and unreliable, and does not trust Barnes. Bruce Banner would cause disproportionate property damage, and would be an inappropriate usage of resources. Natalia or Clint Barton would be viable assets, but neither of them are in the country at present.

“JARVIS, call Sam Wilson,” Barnes says.

“Connecting,” JARVIS says.

A few seconds later, Sam Wilson says, “Hey, man!” He sounds happy to hear from Barnes. “What’s up?”

“Are you available between the hours of twelve and five pm tomorrow,” Barnes says.

“I’ve got work from nine to five. I’ve got an hour at twelve, and my last group ends at four, but I have an open spot then if you want some one-on-one time?”

Barnes considers. Travel time between Queens and Harlem would require more than an hour. Sam Wilson would be more useful in protection than in threatening Garson. Barnes would be better at future deterrence. He is very threatening. “Insufficient,” Barnes decides.

“Sorry, man,” Sam Wilson says. He sounds sincere. “Can it wait until the weekend, whatever it is?”

“No.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Barnes thinks. Does he? He decides, “No.”

“Okay,” Sam Wilson says. He doesn’t try to push Barnes, or mention that he’s always available to be talked to, if Barnes wants. Barnes is already aware of that. Sam Wilson has said so, and has not retracted the offer. Sam Wilson is one of Barnes’s favorites. “Hey, Barnes?”

Barnes grunts.

“You know it’s okay to tell Steve you’re mad at him, right?”

Barnes grunts again.

“I’m really sorry I can’t help.”

“I will find a viable alternative,” Barnes assures him. And then he hangs up.

 

+

 

The next morning, Barnes leaves the tracker in the tower and leaves through the loading dock in branded overalls, carrying a duffel bag that contains his guns. He takes three different taxis and a public transportation vehicle to Brooklyn, and arrives at the jewelry store with ample time to spare. He surveys the neighborhood andidentifies six different viable exfil points from the jewelry store and area. It takes him nine point three minutes to change his clothes, check his guns, and conceal weapons on his person.

With nine minutes to go, he enters the jewelry store.

The store is on the ground floor of a larger building, with offices above. The store takes up the majority of the ground floor. The rest of the floor is taken up by a nail salon, on the other side of a wall composed primarily of plaster and insulation. This is not optimal. The jewelry store itself is approximately 700 square feet, with low display cabinets to the back and right side of the room. There is an entrance at the back right corner of the room, and security cameras facing the door, the display cabinets, and the rear.

Barnes is wearing a baseball cap. It conceals his face. He has donned oxfords, jeans and a grey blazer over a black shirt for this occasion. The blazer belongs to Tony Stark. It looks better on Barnes.

There are three people working in the front part of the store. There are two customers already. One of them is an Asian woman. Barnes is not skilled at determining the age of Asians. She is possibly in her mid-twenties. Or maybe her mid-fifties. Possibly somewhere in between. Asians are chronologically noncommittal.

The other customer is Clint’s Phil.

Barnes does not reach for a gun, even though he should. The metal plates on his arm ripple.

“Explain your presence,” he says.

Clint’s Phil looks up from a ring display, looks over Barnes once, and then says with aplomb, “I’m jewelry shopping. Greetings and salutations.” He blinks again, a quick flick of eyes that scopes out the room and the security. Despite himself, Barnes is impressed again by Clint’s Phil. Minute shifts in his weight suggest he is readying himself to react. “Is this a coincidence? Or is one of us stalking the other?”

“I am on a mission,” Barnes says. Then it occurs to him that this is possibly a worrying thing for the Winter Soldier to have said. So he adds, “There is no need for alarm.”

“Okay,” Clint’s Phil says agreeably.

Then it occurs to Barnes that a jewelry store robbery is, actually, a reason to be alarmed. Because the robbers will be amateurs. Amateurs are dangerous. So he says, “Please disregard the previous statement.”

“Okay.”

Barnes approves of Clint’s Phil’s composure. He is a professional. Barnes catches a reflection off the display case and steps away to the side wall, just in time for the door to burst open and the two robbers to charge in. They are wearing red balaclavas, and carrying handguns. They look stupid. They also act stupid, and run right up the aisle in between Barnes and Clint’s Phil.

“Hands up! This is a ro—!“ one of the stupid robbers says.

The clerks at the jewelry store do not even have time to react before Barnes has his gun pressed hard against the stupid robber’s temple. The stupid robber freezes and rolls his eyes before putting up his hands. Clint’s Phil has already knocked up the gun hand of the other stupid robber and hooked his legs out from under him with his cane. He is now flat on his face with the breath knocked out of him. Clint’s Phil kicks the gun away and twists one of the stupid robber’s flailing arms behind him so that he yelps. Barnes approves. The stupid robber will not be escaping that without destroying several joints.

It is at this point that one of the clerks screams. She is late to the party.

“If you could call 911, ma’am, that would be really helpful,” says Clint’s Phil.

“Oh my God!” shrills the clerk, fumbling for the phone before dropping it. “Oh my God, oh my God, what just _happened_?!” The other clerks have started bubbling like overheated teapots. So has the Asian customer.

Barnes has plucked the gun out of his stupid robber’s hand, and holstered his own weapon. He uses a zip tie to cuff his stupid robber’s hands and elbows behind his back. He kicks the back of the stupid robber’s knees to make him fall down, and ties his ankles and knees together.

“Have any extras?” asks Clint’s Phil, so Barnes tosses him four as well. He approves of the efficiency with which Clint’s Phil restrains his prisoner. It is obvious that he has done this before.

Clint’s Phil would be adequate backup for his next mission, Barnes decides. He could provide close-proximity protection for the target, while Barnes identifies and eliminates the hitter.

“It’s just as well,” Clint’s Phil says, rising to his feet with his cane in his hand. Barnes notices that the weakness in his hip is not a significant impediment. “I wasn’t seeing anything I wanted to buy anyway. I take it that the need for alarm has passed?”

He raises his eyebrow at Barnes. Barnes feels no immediate desire to stab him in the face, the way he does when Tony Stark or Director Nick Fury raise eyebrows at him. He files this away as interesting, and says, “Yes. You are adequate support personnel.”

“Thank you. I aim for adequate.”

This is meant to be humorous, as it is blatantly untrue and Clint’s Phil’s eyes are smiling even though his mouth is not. Barnes finds this interesting as well. Perhaps Clint’s Phil will be useful in further missions. He informs, “The next mission is in Ocean Hill within a window of twelve hundred hours and fourteen hundred hours. Adequate support personnel would increase operational efficiency.”

Clint’s Phil looks thoughtful. “Do we have time for pie after?”

 

+

 

The second mission goes as smoothly as the first. JARVIS provides Barnes and Clint’s Phil intel on the victim and the hitter. The victim’s father and brothers are in the army, which prompts Clint’s Phil to stop by the VA office where he works. Barnes visits with Sam Wilson, who is having a break between sessions, while Clint’s Phil retrieves his old service dress uniform, which he keeps in a black bag. Sam Wilson grins at both of them when they leave, offering his fist for farewell bump.

It is an odd way to say good-bye. Barnes is very careful when he bumps his fist back. The last time he broke Sam Wilson, Steve made stupid sad eyes at him and Dr Albanez made him talk about feelings.

They arrive at Ocean Hill in plenty of time. Clint’s Phil and Barnes scout the area. Barnes identifies many places that would serve as a good sniper perch. Clint’s Phil contends that the hitter will not be a sniper. Barnes is ambivalent, because he would have sniped unless he was ordered to make it messy and personal. He does not like crowds.

“Not with the amount of money that was paid out for this job,” Clint’s Phil says. “Given the crowds at lunchtime, the road conditions, the wind tunnel effect off these side streets—I think we’re looking for a close-proximity hit rather than a skilled sniper. That kind of talent commands much higher rates.”

Barnes could have made the shot with his eyes closed and both hands tied behind his back. He could have made this shot with a _potato gun_. He says something to that effect.

“Yes, but you’re remarkable,” Clint’s Phil says, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

“I concur, sir,” says JARVIS into Barnes’s earpiece. Barnes feels warm inside again. Maybe he’s getting sick. “I apologize. I should have compared the cost structure of successful assassinations with the methods used. I’m afraid I am inexperienced in that sort of hands-on tactical analysis.”

Barnes was never paid for assassinating people. Hydra had bad benefits for brainwashed super-soldier assassins. It is nice to know that in a free market, he would have been highly valued for his skills. He could easily have sniped the victim and exfiltrated cleanly, but he will acknowledge that most assassins are not as good as he is. Was. (Is.)

“Control concurs,” he says, before he can think too much about that. Clint’s Phil is not cleared to know the truth about JARVIS, so Barnes is calling him Control.

“That’s convenient,” Clint’s Phil says.

It is nice to work with competence.

Clint’s Phil uses a coffee shop restroom to change, and comes out in his dress uniform. He has a lot of ribbon on his bars. JARVIS has already provided Clint’s Phil’s service record, but it is still interesting to see them on display. Barnes wonders what his looks like. ‘Enslaved by Hydra’ and ‘Assassination of a sitting president’ probably does not come with ribbons.

Barnes always carries an extra earbud to JARVIS now, just in case. He gave it to Clint’s Phil. He is glad he handed it over before Clint’s Phil changed his clothes, because now Clint’s Phil is the center of much more attention than he was. Strangers walk up to him and thank him for his service, and offer to buy him coffees. Clint’s Phil is leaning heavily on his cane now, which Barnes assumes is more camouflage.

In short order, the streets become more crowded. Workers are out buying lunch and doing errands. The mark emerges from her office building at 13:02 and goes to a coffee cart. Clint’s Phil manages to make the mark bump into him and spill coffee on his sleeve. Then there is apologies, self-recriminations, napkins being tossed about, conversation—

Clint’s Phil is very good at gaining the trust of a mark. Barnes is abruptly grateful that he is operational support. The Winter Soldier did assassinations, not protection. The Winter Soldier definitely didn’t do socialization.

While Clint’s Phil is engaging the mark and controlling her immediate environment, Barnes is standing around with a cup of bad, hot coffee and searching for the assassin. This is not as hard as it seems. The price put up for the job was a little below decent rates, and posted in a place that primarily caters to a certain type of hyper-masculine, overambitious incompetents. It is not hard at all to pick out the assassin. He is a big white man, early twenties and already going to seed, wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and trainers. He is mostly remarkable for the tattoos he has crawling up his neck.

The would-be assassin jitters in place, his eyes fixed on the mark. From time to time he starts forward, only to step back again as though rethinking his decision. Perhaps this is his first hit. Clint’s Phil is plainly proving to be a deterrent. Excellent. Barnes can tell that Clint’s Phil has identified the assassin as well. Also excellent. Since the assassin seems to be mired in false starts, Barnes takes advantage of a passing herd of suits and comes up behind the assassin to put him in a chokehold. He drags him around a corner behind a dustbin.

The assassin attempts to stab him in the metal arm. Barnes thinks it’s a little bit funny. The assassin doesn’t find it funny.

Poor assassin.

Clint’s Phil is still chatting with the mark when Barnes returns. A few minutes after that, Clint’s Phil disengages from the mark and lets her leave, while Barnes puts himself at the mark’s six. There are no subsequent assassins. The contract window closes without incident with the mark already back at her desk, and Barnes and Clint’s Phil rendezvous at a diner down the street. It’s called Lottie’s.

“We’re having pie,” Clint’s Phil tells the waitress who comes to bother them. And then, after a quickly assessing glance at Barnes, he orders a meal for both of them.

It is surprisingly relaxing, having food ordered for him. Barnes will never serve Hydra again, nor will he rejoin the military, but he has spent much of his life being under orders. The sheer number of choices forced on him in this post-Hydra, post-Winter Soldier life is, is. Is exhausting. To have food simply appear before him without a prolonged discussion about what he _wants_ and what he thought about other kinds of food eaten in the past _come on, Buck, it’s okay to have an opinion_ is a relief that’s almost profound.

Still coasting on that epiphany, Barnes inhales the Reuben and steak fries that are pushed in front of him—in itself already more food than he’s managed to keep down in the last twenty-four hours—and then does the same to a pastrami on rye with fruit salad and cottage cheese that appears right after he’s done with a slice of peach pie. Clint’s Phil eats a hamburger and debriefs with the information that he ‘found’ the assassin after they parted ways and called up local law enforcement.

“They won’t be able to hold him unless he confesses, and they find a tie to his employer,” Clint’s Phil says, wrapping up that part of the op with a mildly questioning upturn in his voice.

Barnes says, “I’ll take care of the employer.”

“In that case, I’ll forget any of this ever happened,” Clint’s Phil says, and smiles a little smile that makes his eyes crinkle before rising to fish his wallet out and leave several bills on the table. “It’s been both a privilege and a pleasure. Feel free to call me if you need ops support again.”

And with that, Clint’s Phil leaves the cafe without another word. No expectations, no questions, no complaints, demands, or . . . or _anything_. He even, Barnes realizes, paid only for his part of the meal and a tip.

Barnes feels warm inside _again_. Maybe it’s a fever?

Barnes goes and takes care of the employer, Anton Garson, age 28, who does not like it when his ex-girlfriends start dating his best friends, and has bad judgment combined with anger management issues. It takes Barnes fourteen point two six seconds.

Later, Sam Wilson delivers a giant tub of cioppino to him at the tower, along with heating instructions. .

His chest feels warm again. He is definitely getting sick.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t throw up once. It is a very good day.

 

**_Phil_ **

 

“I have this intense desire to shoot you in the face,” remarks Marcus.

Phil is outlining his next book—or rather, _re_ -outlining it because Marcus is objecting to some of the plot based on National Security concerns. “I have an intense desire to send you to therapy,” he says pleasantly. “Life is full of disappointment.”

Marcus snorts. They’re occupying a corner of Phil’s favorite Bed-Stuy diner, SHIELD bodyguards on duty several tables over. They’re as subtle as monster trucks in a teahouse. Apparently, someone is trying to kill Marcus. Again. Phil sympathizes. “Did I have to put it in writing that I wanted you to stay away from Barnes?” Marcus asks.

“You had to communicate it in some way besides telepathy.”

“Stay away from Barnes.”

Phil stops writing long enough to think about this. Phil has always tried to live up to Captain America, but when he was growing up, the hero he had always wanted to _be_ was Bucky Barnes. The wall at Captain America’s back. The faithful man who supported a great one. He has no idea whether Barnes will need him for another of those odd operations he’s been doing, but Barnes is plainly a traumatized vet. A practically non-verbal traumatized vet who goes around saving New Yorkers and occasionally needs operational support. Phil could be a _sidekick_ to _Bucky Barnes_. It’s really no decision at all. “I believe I’m going to conscientiously object to that one,” he decides.

“I’m not kidding. He’s dangerous.”

“I can be dangerous.”

“Please. You’re a fucking kitten.”

“And yet which one of us blew an op by sitting on a tranquilizer gun in Benghazi?”

The hand Marcus slaps down on the diner table manages to knock over his glass and spill water all over his crotch. Insofar as dramatic gestures go, this makes it anticlimactic. Phil hands Marcus a napkin. Marcus accepts it sourly.

“What if I order you to stay away from Barnes?” Marcus asks.

His honest concern is rather endearing, in a way. Phil realizes regretfully that a career of creatively interpreting inconvenient direct orders has translated to a generalized disdain for authority. _Especially_ if it’s Marcus’s. Who is no longer his commanding officer anyway. Because Phil is no longer in the military. He opens his mouth to remind Marcus of that fact.

“Fuck,” Marcus sighs, before he can say anything. “I know that face.”

Phil would apologize, but he’s just not feeling it. “So what’s the real reason you don’t want me around Barnes?”

“Besides the fact he’s the best assassin in the world, political poison, being watched by pretty much every intelligence agency on the fucking planet, and about two paper cuts away from a full-blown psychotic break?”

“The more you talk, the more I like him. Is that what you’re going for? Because if it isn’t, you’re doing reverse psychology wrong.”

Marcus glares at him. “I thought you were seeing Barton?”

“I can like one and be in love with the other. I’m collecting the letter ‘B.’” Phil dots an ‘i’ and sits back to smile at his best friend. “It’s a proud sponsor of Sesame Street.”

Marcus stares. Then his face starts to change. He looks deeply unimpressed. “If you say you’re hanging around me because I’m black, motherfucker—“

“B is for _bald_ ,” Phil says reproachfully.

Then he has to smack Marcus a few times with a spoon because Marcus tries to clock him with the napkin holder. It excites the SHIELD bodyguards, which leads to Phil accidentally flattening them a bit. “Have you been recruiting from the Chair Force?” Phil asks Marcus, aghast over a groaning agent.

“I will _shred your credit rating for dessert_ , _Cheese_ ,” Marcus snaps, while Lottie lectures the bodyguards about property damage. There’s embarrassment all around.

Good times.

 

+

 

Phil’s post-it about not escaping from medical care is gone when he gets back to the apartment. It has been replaced with a great deal of sweaty, bloody, and ripped up clothing in the hamper, along with a lopsided sad face on a neon post-it stuck on the empty dish detergent bottle. He considers the mess. Is it possible that Clint thinks laundry is supposed to be done using liquid dish soap? He admits to himself that it isn’t out of the question. Also, the apartment laundry machine isn’t really up to dealing with tactical vests.

It’s about this time that his cell rings. _‘Barnes, J.B.’_ says the caller ID, which is not an identity that Phil has ever programmed into his Starkphone. He fishes it out, not really paying attention, and answers the call.

“I require operational support,” says the flat voice on the other end. No _hello_ , no _how are you_ , no _this is James Barnes, known more widely as Bucky Barnes, best friend of Captain America and one your childhood heroes._

So apparently they’re going to do this. Phil admits to himself that he thrills a little. He’s not ashamed. “Op specs?”

“Cobble Hill, 0800, tomorrow. Intel gathering on Tabitha Reyes, 30, homemaker and person of interest.”

“In?”

“Unclear.”

“Affirmative. Send the file,” Phil says, even as his phone beeps with the chime of a newly arrived text link to a secure file drop box. He notes it’s one of the services run under the Homeland Defense umbrella and hums happily to himself at the further proof that Homeland Defense has terrible network security. He’s not surprised. Homeland Defense is awful.

The professional exchange finished, a somewhat awkward silence falls. Then Barnes says, just as brusque as ever, “Sam Wilson brought the red soup.”

“Cioppino.”

Another pause. “It was good.”

Somewhere in there is an implied thank you. Phil takes it as a given. “How do you feel about shepherd’s pie?”


End file.
